I showed him the paper. He sniffed it.
“You’re gonna take this inside for me, okay?”
I reached to tuck it under his collar, and his whole back twitched; he shook his head and tried to eject the note. I tucked it in tighter and he just blinked at me.
“Wow. You’re a patient one. Okay, go on in your kitty door.”
He just stared at me.
“Kitty door. Inside.” I pointed at the door, then actually poked it, swinging it open an inch.
The cat, being a cat, took his time. He took the long route all the way back around the bench, rubbing against a tree on his way, then finally squeezed through the door.
Well. That was either brilliant or stupid.
For all I knew, he’d go have a cat nap now and that note would be tucked under his collar for days.
I went back out to the pool area and sat down on one of the lounge chairs. Everything looked beautiful, but very untouched. The pool was immaculately clean, but I wondered if anyone even used it.
The words recluse, workaholic and shut-in had all been tossed around in my vicinity—as descriptors of Courteney Clarke’s brother—late at night when people were drunk and they got loose lipped about such things. And yes, words like crazy were tossed around, too.
If anyone ever tried to tell you that men didn’t gossip as much as women did, they were fucking full of it, because I’d never heard anyone gossip like a bunch of male rock stars pounding whiskey shots at three a.m..
My best friend, Danica, had married a rock star—Ashley Player—six months ago. And Ash’s bandmate, Xander, was Cary Clarke’s best friend and former bandmate. I supposed if anyone had the goods on Cary, it was Xander. I never heard Xander use any of those labels to describe Cary; he never said much about Cary at all. But he certainly didn’t deny it when everyone else said those things.
And all Courteney had said about him was He’s very private and He doesn’t go out much.
I’d still taken this meeting with him, at her request, because frankly, I liked her. She was friends with Danica, and she and I had become friendly, socially. And yes, maybe there was just a dash of morbid curiosity involved.
Plus, I needed the work. Courteney had offered me a week-long contract—to meet with her brother, then meet with her to help her vet, interview and hire an assistant for him—a contract that would nicely bridge the gap between the temp contract I’d just ended and whatever gig I took next.
As I waited by her brother’s pool, I wondered what he was really like. And yes, I wondered if he was really crazy.
I knew what he looked like, more or less. I’d seen him in music videos years ago, when his band was big. I remembered, more or less, the image of this beautiful guy playing guitar, with wavy, sun-streaked hair. And I may have Googled him over the weekend, after his sister asked me, over beers, to meet with him.
I saw pictures.
But those pictures were all old. More than five years old. So I really wasn’t sure what I was expecting now.
For some reason, I kept imagining some washed-up loser who’d embalmed himself in alcohol, cologne and ego. I pictured him with his hair slicked back in a bad ponytail, maybe going slightly bald, wearing a Hugh Hefner style satin robe, probably open. Maybe with no shirt and a slight beer belly, some tacky jewelry, the stink of last night’s whiskey binge emanating from his pores?
The type of rich person whose life had diverged so far from other human beings’ reality that when he spoke to you he looked somewhere above your head and definitely didn’t listen to what you had to say. I’d known rich people like that. I’d worked for them.
I still wasn’t sure I really knew how to talk to them.
I mean, anything I had to say… would it make a difference?
Would he just shut the door in my face?
Would he even open the door?
I wondered what he’d think, when he opened his door and found this random pink-haired stranger lounging by his pool.
I also wondered if I cared.
In my mind, we were all equal beings, just trying to get by on this strange little planet. Some people just didn’t see it that way, but that was on them. I’d never seen CEOs, executives, rich trophy wives, or any of the other people I’d worked for as “above” me. I paid them the respect they were due when they were paying my salary, but I’d worked for enough wealthy and so-called powerful people to know that they weren’t any better than me just because they had status and power.
I felt the same way about all the rock stars I’d met since my best friend hooked up with one.
All of the above meant that I’d brought “myself” to this meeting. I didn’t do one extra thing to look like anything I wasn’t. I didn’t drape myself in designer clothes or accessories that I could barely afford so I could “look the part.” I wore a typical Taylor outfit: a black dress. This one was a soft, summery maxi dress, sleeveless, accessorized with a long necklace with a silver skull-and-crossbones on it.
And now, it had cat fur all over it.
Oh well.
I was maybe a little nervous, because I liked Courteney, and that meant I wanted this to go well. I wanted her brother not to hate me and say bad things about me to Courteney. But I hated that.
I hated needing anything from someone who had the power to shit on me just because he could. I’d sworn to myself—while tearing wax strips off a woman’s butt a few days ago—that I’d never, ever compromise my dignity for a paycheck again. There was nothing wrong with tearing wax strips off someone’s butt for money, of course—if you were a professional aesthetician.
I, however, was not one.
And I was not some inexperienced wannabe assistant who’d grovel outside a rock star’s mansion all day long, just waiting on him to deign to grace me with his presence only to treat me like garbage. No matter who he was related to.
I glanced over at the house, at those closed French doors that would open onto the path.
Nothing.
No sign of Cary Clarke.
I glanced at the time on my phone and wondered how much of my day I would sacrifice to this. For Courteney. And of course, for the money she was paying me.
I gazed at the beautiful, neglected pool, just a few feet away.
Then I slipped off my sandals and walked over to the edge. I dipped my left foot right in the warmish water, up to the ankle. I wiggled my toes around, then pulled my foot back out.
Man, if I lived here, I’d be in that pool every day of summer.
I started to turn back to the house when the French doors cracked open.
And he appeared.
Finally.
I walked right over to meet him and stopped in the middle of the path.
He didn’t step outside, though. He just stood there on the threshold, looking at me strangely. Not angrily or rudely or anything. Just… strangely. Like he had no idea what to make of me, standing here in his backyard. If I’d ever felt like a stalker in my life—I really hadn’t, other than this—yeah, this moment was it.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Taylor. Courteney sent me.”
Absolutely brilliant, considering that was pretty much the same thing I wrote on the note, and evidently, he read it.
He just stared at me. And he definitely looked nothing like what I’d pictured.
He did not look like a loser.
He looked like a guy who, if I saw him in line at the grocery store or something, I’d stare at him while pretending to read a trashy magazine, scan for a wedding ring, and try to figure out how I could “accidentally” pack his bread into my bag and then slip him my phone number while we were laughing about it.
He wasn’t laughing now. Or even smiling.
He looked me over, slowly, and I did the same to him. Quickly.
He had to be closer to my age than his teenage sister’s, and he definitely wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I realized I hadn’t even wondered, until this moment, if anyone might be in the house with him. Or ho
w old he was. Or if he might actually be perfectly healthy and sane.
He didn’t look insane, but really, what did an insane person look like?
He looked fit. Definitely no beer belly.
No sleazy robe, either.
He wore a gray T-shirt that was kind of wrinkled, with worn gray jeans. A simple, brown leather bracelet. His hair was light brown, kind of blonde, but not as sun-streaked as I remembered it. It was cut short around the back and a little longer over his forehead, very modern rock star, and kind of messy, like he didn’t bother doing anything with it when he got out of bed this morning.
Definitely hadn’t done anything extra to prepare for this meeting. Less than I had, even.
He had a strong jawline, kind of a small nose, and very nice lips. And slightly dark circles under his gorgeous eyes. They were a light hazel color, like his sister’s. They met mine again and held there.
When he said absolutely nothing, I asked, “Are you Cary?”
He was, I was pretty sure. Unless he had a twin or something. He looked pretty much like all his photos.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Cary.”
“Courteney asked me to come talk to you today. Is this a good time?”
He just stood there, and he didn’t answer me.
And I wondered… Was there something wrong with this guy? Like did he have some kind of brain damage from too many rock star drug binges?
Was he really a shut-in? Was this as close as he would get to stepping outside his door?
Did he really not use his gorgeous pool?
And if he was a shut-in… when was the last time he’d seen a woman who wasn’t his sister? Not that it was any of my business, but the way he was looking at me made me wonder.
It wasn’t a blank stare. He was definitely thinking… something. And for a long, uncomfortable moment, I was one-hundred-percent sure that he was about to either A) tell me to leave, or B) shut the door in my face without even answering me.
Then he blinked, and his expression changed. That unnerving intensity in his eyes broke. His focus softened and he glanced down at my feet.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Come in.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and walked back into the house, leaving me standing there. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust. We were in a living room and there were no lights turned on. It was kind of dim, the curtains on the windows on either side of the French doors filtering the daylight.
I closed the door behind myself and followed him. He crossed the room and sat down in an armchair kind of like it was his throne, but he didn’t look relaxed. He pointed at the couch next to him.
I sat down in the middle of the couch and laid my purse on the coffee table in front of me. He looked at it. He looked at my feet. He looked at my tattoos. The Gimme Shelter tattoo up my inner right arm, the flower tattoo on my left wrist.
I glanced around the room. It was large and seemed professionally decorated. Danica, who was an interior decorator, would definitely approve. Everything was in tones of cream, some charcoal-gray, and looked expensive. The cozy sitting area was dominated by the huge couch I was sitting on. There was a giant flatscreen TV across from it; had to be an eighty-inch screen, at least.
But it all felt very untouched, like no one actually used this room.
I looked at Courteney’s brother. He was just sitting there, staring at me.
“You have a beautiful house,” I said.
And in response, he said, “Is your foot wet?”
I looked down at my foot. It did look wet. “I dipped it in the pool,” I admitted. “I left my shoes out there, too.” I wiggled my bare toes on the carpet as he scrutinized them.
Then he met my eyes again. He said nothing.
Shit. What if he was a germaphobe or something? I glanced down. His feet were bare, too, but he lived here.
“Should I go get them?” I asked.
“No.”
I tried to smile a little. And I decided that he looked different from his photos. In pretty much all the photos I’d seen of him online, he was smiling. Even the ones where he wasn’t smiling, his eyes were smiling.
He wasn’t smiling now, with any part of him.
“So, your sister asked me if I would meet with you, to chat a little bit about how an assistant might be of use to you. She explained this to you, I guess?”
“She did.”
“Great. Well, I’ve been an executive assistant for ten years.” God, had it been that long? “I’ve worked in many different environments, different industries, for all types of employers, so hopefully I can help with this. I haven’t worked in the music industry, but—”
“Does that say ‘Gimme Shelter’?”
He’d interrupted me so suddenly, it took me a moment to process. I lifted my right arm a little, showing my tattoo. The one he was now staring at. “Yes. It does.”
He met my eyes again. I waited, but he didn’t say anything else.
I put my arm down.
“So… I thought maybe you could tell me a bit about your workday,” I said. “Since I’m not totally familiar with what you do.”
He said nothing.
“Uh, from what I understand, you have a home studio here that you work out of?”
“Yes.”
“And you produce albums for other artists from here?”
“Yes.”
“So, is most of your day spent working on the actual music? Or is there much paperwork involved? Do you have virtual meetings, conference calls, that kind of thing?”
“Yes.”
Holy God. They were men of few words… and then there was this man.
“How much of your time would you say is spent doing redundant administrative tasks, like answering phone calls and emails and filling out paperwork?”
“I don’t answer phone calls. I rarely answer emails. Paperwork… usually goes to my accountant or the lawyers or whoever.”
“Would you like someone to answer the phone for you? Answer your emails?”
“The people on the other end of the phone calls and emails might appreciate it.”
Hmm. Clever.
He still didn’t smile, though.
“Would it be helpful to you to have someone handle your personal errands?” I asked him. “Groceries, dry cleaning, post office…?”
“My housekeeper gets the groceries. I don’t need dry cleaning. And the staff over at my recording studio handle any shipping and mail.”
“Right.” I knew he owned a recording studio over in Mount Pleasant. Danica told me, even before Courteney mentioned it; she was doing some interior decorating there this week, getting things comfy for the Players as they settled in. “Little Black Hole,” I said, remembering the name of the studio.
He said nothing. I supposed there wasn’t really a question in that, though. And he hardly seemed like the type to carry a conversation, so apparently this was all on me.
Courteney hadn’t mentioned that he had a housekeeper, but it was reassuring to hear it, somehow. Presumably that meant he saw another human being on some sort of regular basis, even if he never left the house.
“How about scheduling?” I asked him. “Time management? Would it help you to have someone keeping you organized, on task, on deadline, anything like that?”
“I’ve never had that before. And things manage to get done.”
“When you think about having an assistant work with you, what do you picture?”
“I have no idea.”
I considered that. I was pretty used to employers who knew exactly what they wanted out of an assistant. Usually, someone they could give orders to all day, who’d do whatever they needed at any moment of the day—or night. But this man didn’t seem to have any preconceived ideas, or even any desire, particularly, to have an assistant at his beck and call.
At least, he wasn’t expressing any desire as we sat here talking.
“Can you hear the buzzer on your front gate,” I as
ked him, curious, “when you’re working in the studio?”
“The buzzer goes to my phone.”
Right. The phone he never answered.
“How about the doorbell?”
“The studio is soundproofed.”
Interesting. I wondered if he had any plan of meeting with me at all. Or if he’d forgotten about our meeting.
If I didn’t sneak that note in to him with his cat… would he have completely blown this meeting off?
I studied him as he studied me. He was so… still. Totally silent. I could see his chest move a little, like he was taking slow, deep breaths. But he didn’t even blink for a long moment.
Was he a ghost or something? Because that would explain a lot.
“So… right now you’re working on the Players’ album, right?
“Yes.”
“Are you working on anything else?”
“No.”
“Do you ever work on more than one project at a time?”
“Sometimes they overlap a bit, but I try to avoid that.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer that. Just stared at me.
I almost moved on to something else, but then he said, “Because I dive pretty deep when I’m on a project. That level of focus… it’s hard to break.”
“So, it’s pretty intense for you when you’re working on an album?”
“Yes.”
“Does it get any easier, now that you’ve done it for so long?”
“It’s never easy.”
“Do you work long hours in a typical day?”
“Yes.”
“Are you looking forward to this project?”
He took a moment to answer that one. “I haven’t worked with Xander in a while, so that should be interesting.”
“Do you enjoy what you do?”
“Most of the time.”
“How long will the album take?”
“Maybe six months. That’s the timeline outlined in the contract, but that can always change. Could take a week. Could take the rest of my life.”
Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 4